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    • Writing April 24, 2016
      Frankie, Sarah, Dona, and Me Ajar Frankie, Sarah, Dona and me napped together at the dormitory.  All four of us dog piled into one bed. I tended to be on the bottom with everyone around me curling into fetal position.  Limited space meant you had to hold onto something, so hands attached to my sides […]
      Tespid
    • Writing: Genus Species II April 20, 2016
      Genus Species II If I write about men, my relationships over the years must come into question. The argument stems from the presumption that male relatives, teachers, and icons have more than influenced me.  They have left an indelible mark. As a result, my observations do not completely lay in boyfriends, lovers, and one-night stands.  […]
      Tespid
    • Writing: Genus Species April 12, 2016
      Genus Species I am dutiful, but severely ignorant of what I do.  With that said, and before I make a grave mistake, I will predicate my explanations with an offering of forgiveness. I reached fourteen years of age before I begged God to know what it meant to be a boy. The curiosity was not […]
      Tespid
    • Cooking W.H. 17 April 11, 2016
      W.H. 17 4/10/2016 Sunday 2:36 p.m. Tomato Soup with Basil and Cornmeal Dumplings   1 can of tomato soup 1 can of water ½ teaspoon dried basil ½ teaspoon dried parsley Mix and heat through.   ½ cup white cornmeal ½ beaten egg 1 Tablespoon corn oil 1 Tablespoon sugar ½ teaspoon baking powder ¼ […]
      Tespid
    • Writing: Fleshing the Animal April 6, 2016
      Governess III: Closing Notes I. I, uh, I could be proper. If it would help me find a good man, then yes, I could be proper. Well, I am, in a way, well, proper. For others to understand me, I speak common English and enunciate my consonants. Well, what I am trying to say is […]
      Tespid
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Writing

Posted by Tespid on April 24, 2016

Frankie, Sarah, Dona, and Me

  1. Ajar

Frankie, Sarah, Dona and me napped together at the dormitory.  All four of us dog piled into one bed. I tended to be on the bottom with everyone around me curling into fetal position.  Limited space meant you had to hold onto something, so hands attached to my sides and heads nestled into my chest.  One time I remember it being good hour before we woke. Frankie told me once that she always feels safe sleeping next to me.  She intimated as if the feeling was overwhelming.  I heard the same from the others and I still wonder if my heartbeat is really that loud and rhythmic.

My conclusion and encouragements are that I give good naps as well as good hugs. At least it is said so by friends, enemies, relatives, and strangers. I did not study or read to help others feel secure around me. On the contrary, it has been a matter of deciphering my needs for safe touch. Let us leave out any notion of romantic intimacies for now.  Right now, where I sit attaches itself to emotional outbursts and confusion. It is a place next to the freezer door leaning ajar against the pantry shelving.  It also means I sit at the base of a Red Oak tree waiting for the storm to subside.  Sometimes hugs then color dismantled anger and agitated loneliness that dwells at the core.  When I ask for a hug, it is because I cannot manage myself anymore. If whom I ask receives the request on gentle ears, then we both tender blessings indeed.

Knowing my mother’s skittish attitude toward hugging, I never thought she would be receptive when I, in my late twenties, began asking for physical reinforcement of care.  My family, I wanted more than anything, but I knew less of their habits reacting to implementing new traditions. One Saturday afternoon, I asked the question: Can I have a hug? She said yes. I held on to her for a moment and let up so as not to press the issue. She said, “We’re not done. In this article I read, they say to hug for at least thirty seconds to release endorphins.” I wrapped my arms beneath her shoulders and we counted together for the whole thirty seconds. I felt the changes and so did she. I have used it as a rule of thumb ever since then. I hug to release daily shackles, but only with those, I respect and trust.

  1. Last Christmas

I thought I would cry. I stood in front of my niece and nephew asking for a hug before they left for home. I always ask and they always say no. I do not know why I hope for a change. Last meeting over Christmas, I asked them the same question as they left. They hugged their grandmother at her insistence. Me however, giving them a choice may have revealed emotional ignorance on both of our parts. The occasion may seem mundane. You wonder why it matters. For me it is this: some never get to choose or manage their physical contact with peers or adults.  This is especially the case for children. At the same age I did not have the ability or knowledge that I had a right to say no, to walk way, or fight. With them, I do not press the point.  I thought that if I could slip the lesson in quietly, seamlessly, the two might learn what safe touch meant.  One point of which was having control over your own body foremost.

At the close of a holiday celebration, I got desperate. I begged for a hug even after they both said, “No.” after I asked. I was envious; everyone else got his or hers.  Then I thought playing with them on the playground equipment as the others talked would suffice my need to show them I cared. I did not, so, I begged. They finally stood with arms open wide and I carefully hugged them without smashing them into my breast. The joy? Last Christmas, they gave hugs without asking. Moving head to breast I said, “I love you very much” If in their later years they remember just that brief interaction, I will be happy.

III. The Laws of No

Saying, “No”, or, “Don’t touch me”, is not always a hateful remark. If I cannot stand to be in my skin or am in state of fearing because of flashbacks, please do not touch me. I am close to a breaking point and fear everything round me.  The slightest touch may result in me brutally accosting you. If I do not leave the room, know that your presence grounds me. Know that I am not angry, but I am in an extreme mode of self-defense.  My defensiveness has nothing to do with you.  The occasion ties itself to my environment.  I feel out of control and I cannot read the signs or signifiers of what is happening. Best be for me is rest and to know my immediate support is not leaving.

IV. Surrogates

Before I turn in, as the day and night is over for me, I find myself in a gentle embrace.  I could create some contraption of muse to wrap around my chest and behind my back. “Why,” you ask. If but for one reason no one else dwells in this inner sanctum.  Should I commit the time to create such an endearment, my long armed stuffed animals will have to be calmed, as their jealousies will swell into the dark past midnight hours. For now, their love substitutes for any caring human touch I would have. Besides that, they settle my heartbeat come waking hours while the coos of doves on holly branches row louder outside my bedroom window.

For now, I seek my own two arms and care for fingers with the diligence of tailor. I can grasp my shoulder blades now. I can imagine a tighter embrace now. I can wait for two other arms at morning wake. Shall I practice hugging with the diligence of a doctor? I will beg the prescription of one in the morning and one at night, with love’s arms making peace on the insides of windows.

 

©N.A. Jones      2016       All Rights Reserved

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Writing: Genus Species II

Posted by Tespid on April 20, 2016

Genus Species II

If I write about men, my relationships over the years must come into question. The argument stems from the presumption that male relatives, teachers, and icons have more than influenced me.  They have left an indelible mark. As a result, my observations do not completely lay in boyfriends, lovers, and one-night stands.  So, for now, I write an analysis from memories of my stepfather.  If my relationship with men ever took root beyond a greeting, he is the disciplined reason.  He is the first man I lived with and experienced the boundaries of anger, jealousy, and ignorance. For this discussion, the tales revolve round him.

This is the man I screamed for my mother not wed. I spoke just s the Justice began the pronouncement of vows. Great auntie pulled my arm while clasping her hand shut over my mouth. “Quiet,” she insisted into my left ear. I did not cry. I sat still and sulked. The clarity of the moment had gone and I knew that marrying him would change everything. In hindsight, this change would rank in significance with my fears of menopause. For both occasions, it would be the end of life passage.

 “A woman’s body is laden with secrets only their mothers could experience first and later feel obligated to explain.”

She stood at the counter by the sink seasoning a plump fryer. As she turned, I opened the door to the oven while sniffing the air for aromas of salt and herbs. Our conversation about the mundane had not changed, so I thought.  When she commented her first marriage was for love, while the second was of convenience, I tried not to cough over the chicken, as it lay open on the stainless steel roasting pan. It was as if the curse lifted off my head.  Every bit of anger I harbored since the wedding validated itself while my stepfather gazed into the false depths of the television screen downstairs. The Steelers made the first score of the night while everything else in our house went strangely quiet.

I cannot argue against the care and cost it takes to adopt. I felt I lost my name when my father stopped calling by the time I turned six.  I cannot argue against blessings of food, shelter, clothing, and water even into my early thirties.  All of these were blessings that I am not soon able to forget. Still, where was the point of change when I became thankful from hateful? I know when it was and telling may be my undoing.

Knowing when a boy has overcome his petty jealousies and childhood obsessions, may be the growing edge of manhood.  Seeing the change in my stepfather in front of my eyes forced my guard down for several years. His cheeks softened around his facial muscles. His hard jaw released underneath his mustache. What happened? I asked him for a hug. My motivation did not come from previous conversations. Neither was it request born out of emotional manipulation. I was in dire need of support and reaching out came at cost; fifteen plus years of anger had to be released and forgotten.  I became willing to forgive my childhood anger of him replacing me in my mother’s eyes.  As his arms closed round my back, decades of frost and salt building freezing emotional temperatures finally stop from my stiffening my spine.

“I don’t hug,” said mother long go. “My mother and father never hugged. It is not that they did not love me or your uncle, it is just I never understood it as need.”  In the seventeen years they were married I never saw them hug or kiss. It was barely so on their wedding day. On the other hand, I am an emotionally driven person who appreciates physical reinforcement.  Too quickly, other’s love for me is something I too easily forget.  The thought is abstract and distant.  Hugs are demonstrative and reassuring no matter the verbal cues or reminders.  A hug also means a man is not embarrassed to claim me as a close friend in public. It means I stand by you and respect you. That spring after I came home changed the household.  I asked for a hug and the man of the house approved.

I met my stepfather before the marriage. We got along very well. He was patient, yet distracted around me. His draw was for my mother and television. So our play tended to last for a few moments. We had moved into the new house when I met his two children from his first marriage. One early evening, the thereof us stood in the hallway arguing over where we were sleeping. My egging on the situation resulted in his daughter casually whispering that he was not my dad anyway. I shut up, but the others kept screaming until my mother told us all to go to bed. Come eight o’clock that night, I laid in my bedroom alone trying to ignore the slight.  Then, I could not understand what the hidden meaning of her words meant. What I understood was that I had no father. Come morning all I could do is fight everybody.

Growing up I heard men tend to be cold emotionally. Tightly embraced hugs, kisses on the forehead, and holding hands are for little girls. I can hear, “They need that stuff. You are older than that. Toughen up.” Mom’s accusations frequently fell this way, “You are too emotional. Quit taking things so hard.” College friends saw when I ignored emotional dialogue the friendship would tax me to the core.  Even after I felt comfortable reaching out, many would walk away or laugh in my face. Men go without for the sake of being tough and hard. They yield to accumulating reputations to maintain a dominant position in their home and immediate communities. To me, hugging stepfather means he was already yielding. Over that rainy spring, his world must have been changing as quickly as my own.  That afternoon in the kitchen is one of the few points I yield about men and emotions. I have gotten to an age where I want to see that men have intrinsic worth besides providing financial support to live. There must be more to relationships then bragging about financial status and possessions. Forgive me, they must be there, but I just have not met many men who testify to being competent of emotional languages.

Lastly, I can also yield on this point; Men can redeem themselves if they choose to. In hindsight, I am relieved he gave me distance and did not reject my outreach in the end. Because of it, my heart is more forgiving of others than it used to be. One never knows what besets another. So take care to tread another’s earth lightly. I recognize fruit of the lesson. Now partaking, I can walk the ground with care and more confidence in my gait.

©N.A. Jones      2016       All Rights Reserved

Posted in Suicide Journal, Writing | Tagged: | Leave a Comment »

Writing: Genus Species

Posted by Tespid on April 12, 2016

Genus Species

I am dutiful, but severely ignorant of what I do.  With that said, and before I make a grave mistake, I will predicate my explanations with an offering of forgiveness. I reached fourteen years of age before I begged God to know what it meant to be a boy. The curiosity was not for my own sake, but for another. Trying to understand boys was born for the sake that, by age seventeen, a friend told me that I caused pain and confusion in the opposite sex. As result, I never experienced numerous occasions of opportunity and growth through social interaction. To this day, I quip over being an introvert mixed with dated and backwards approaches to socializing. Wondering, why I was not included in parties or study hall banter, eventually forced a personal confrontation with my nature.  By the time I finally understood the slight, I could into prevent myself from becoming passive tempered by biting speech in college. The edge of my ailment was that I never saw how I embarrassed myself among my male peers. Being told at the end of adolescence that I was intimidating and harsh towards young men, resulted in a soul that fractured, chipped, and scattered itself in pieces over the bedroom floor.

The years after high school involved rescuing my heart by not shunning men completely. I confess that I needed to learn how to communicate without hiding my intelligence and independence. By age thirty, with enough distance in years and space from the incidence and conversation, I turned from playing blame and guilt conversations in my ears. Forgiveness began in my eyes; I learned to be attentive without interrupting with probing emotional questions. After that came understanding and eventually reaching out. Knowing what it meant to be a boy still lay heavy on my heart. I could continue to presume the mechanical aspects of intimacy, but affairs d’couer are a pinnacle of what woman emotionally evolve. Laying the arts of a whore is never place I planned to explore. Tending a boy’s wounds and conceiving man’s heart would heal me and educate me to defend others.  I never admitted to this and I will only swear under an oak tree; after experiencing woman’s solidarity, I vowed to help women. I vowed to help, but only in the stead of helping men first. An earful of men bashing lasts for many decade, but if you had a love beyond the cackling of women around a fire, you must test the source. Sometimes a woman’s ailment does not stem from pure cause. From reading Greek mythology, Athena tended to men and tested women who in their conceit, all failed. Having taken shelter in her mantle before, I have grown just as well.

I had returned to school while my brother aged through trial after trial over one hundred miles away.  Since his birth, the years between our ages yield to little reason to communicate over the past twenty years. Meanwhile, I secretly labored the guilt of physical and emotional distance thinking it was my responsibility as the elder to close the gap with phone calls and doting presences. My attentiveness failed and in one phone call, over birthday celebrations, I went back to my world. Still, I could not help but wonder what his early years were like growing up young, black, and male. Even if not making up for the heart’s distance, I had to know him for the sake of understanding males in general.  Even from early childhood, most of my friends were boys and later in years, I row closer to men. Failing in my duties as a sister might reflect on my personal relationships with men. I do not want to fail again. I do not want to lose another friend. I do not want to walk away from my brother or another. I want to learn to support instead of letting matters go. The distance that swells between men and I occupies an irrational space. More than likely, the actions born from that paranoia stems from a handful of precepts and gossip about men and boys. Though I have grown an inch or so around the waist and my head is fixated on budgeting, I formulated these beliefs about men that tower and crash in this Easter moonlight.  Maybe this is what keeps me from bonding, breeding, and believing more in a man’s intrinsic worth than in his wallet.

When mutual understanding is present and trust is not an issue, males will tell you directly what they want. No matter the subject, from my experience, the end of his conversation means a significant change in the relationship. When I was in elementary school, I knew all the kids on the street. Though I was short, leggy, and quiet, I tended to hang around the older kids learning to play their games and thrill at their interests. Notably, I was the little one in the group and the only female. Playing “King of the Hill” with Craig and John behind the backfield on the farmer’s land is an easily recalled memory. The hills we played on I understand now as possible Indian burial mounds. If I had known then, I would have behaved with more respect. Though in my heart, I feel the dead are just as happy to have visitors who play or pray without deviant intent.

Those days we played are little more precious than I can explain. The boys accepted me as their own, at least until they recognized my change. John’s fickleness started the following year in the fall back in the woods. Several of the boys decided to build tree house in the forest behind the houses. They selected the site and collected wood over late autumn. Eventually struck by winter snows and cabin fever, I ventured outside bundled in coat, scarf, gloves, and hat to hold a hammer while the boys secured the foundation and arranged the wood structure. “We need something to hold the wood. The nails are not holding,” said the fair-haired other. I volunteered to get screws and would return shortly. Trekking long through the snowdrift I arrived back home excited with news. I went downstairs to the basement with my stepfather to select screws. He gave me a small handful of long screws. Not thinking, I gripped the metal in my hand instead of tucking it away secure in my pockets. After carefully walking back down the icy street, I turned to the left, and cut between houses to get back to the site. Sinking in snow while walking up the hill, I met John and the others coming in the opposite direction. Just as I pushed my fist out toward him, handing over the screws, he started screaming. He began calling me a bitch over and over and over again as he stepped one foot at a time closer to me.  With each of his steps advancing toward me, I took a careful step backwards. When I finally understood that “bitch” was not a kind word, I dropped the screws, turned around, and ran home. I never spoke to him again. Two years later, my family moved and my confidences changed.

I learned a small handful of cautions from my experience. First, what my inner child understands is that boys become irrational with little information. They may not realize that vulnerability strikes both ways when being swayed by others. One caveat is that I never knew if gossip fueled his anger. Second, boys can trust even when altruism no longer secures the conversation. Third, boys can play with girls even when puberty rises as a question between solid friendships. Some boys learn the boundaries of respect from women and honor that space and guardianship with their young female friends. When Craig and John became friends, I nearly lost it. I was losing a playmate. When the two bonded over a common astrological sign, I knew I had to find something to bide the hours after school. I read. I made a magazine. I stopped playing with dolls. Come spring I wandered the woods and followed the creek bed to its source. Meanwhile, the “Victorious Virgos” found support in common manhood. I, on the other hand, found solitude.

©N.A. Jones      2016       All Rights Reserved

Part II will be posted next week.

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Cooking W.H. 17

Posted by Tespid on April 10, 2016

W.H. 17

4/10/2016 Sunday

2:36 p.m.

Tomato Soup with Basil and Cornmeal Dumplings

 

1 can of tomato soup

1 can of water

½ teaspoon dried basil

½ teaspoon dried parsley

Mix and heat through.

 

½ cup white cornmeal

½ beaten egg

1 Tablespoon corn oil

1 Tablespoon sugar

½ teaspoon baking powder

¼ teaspoon salt

3 Tablespoons almond milk

While the tomato soup heats, mix the above ingredients and drop by the spoonful into 3 tablespoons of hot coconut oil. I used a one inch ice cream scoop to measure out the batter. Fry the meal until golden brown on each side.

Take a shallow bowl and place ½-1 cup of the soup in the dish. Place three dumplings in the soup. Sprinkle lightly with an Italian cheese blend or Parmesan. Serve.

Note: The above provides for the fundamentals. Feel free to make the tomato soup from scratch with or without cream. I have to make a trip to the grocer for what I would like to do. First I must find dried prawns in the Mexican aisle. Usually they are pulverized and that will make a welcome addition to the cornmeal dumplings. Lastly, I would like an ear of corn to cut down to kernels and sprinkle over the soup. A garnish of mint from the garden would complete my dish well.  Well, come the next big run to the grocer I will have everything I need. If the prawns are a hit, you’ll hear from me assuredly.

Dishes done and put away for the night,

Fluted Frog, Esq.

 

 

 

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Writing: Fleshing the Animal

Posted by Tespid on April 6, 2016

Governess III: Closing Notes

I.

I, uh, I could be proper. If it would help me find a good man, then yes, I could be proper. Well, I am, in a way, well, proper. For others to understand me, I speak common English and enunciate my consonants. Well, what I am trying to say is I could speak in hushed tones and less confidently.  Of course, if my nature intimidates the opposite sex, then yes, I could practice to be demure and coquettish. If it would help me to find a good man, then yes, I could be proper like that. Luis told me not to expect less of myself. “You’re an intelligent woman,” he said,”Don’t feign ignorance just to be liked.”  My stomach twinged causing me to rethink an eager response.  He was right. For the last eight years  I should have spoke up instead of silencing my needs, but what can a fifty some year old girl do?  How do I coax the assertiveness out of accused aggression? I am paranoid of boys listening to the giggle and jiggle of a female without turning a clear eye to the heart.  My problem is reliving eighth grade social protocol and I shrink below four foot eight crying in my big girl panties.  I needed to quit courting thoughts of boys and seek the hearts and minds of men.  Come spring I muse that boys fall in love while men want you to cook and clean. Behaving as a proper girl means that I cater to the sensibilities of both boys and men. For the aching youth in my bones I hope to marry a man that still loves to play.

Dear Governess McCormick, I am lost in play. For theirs and my sake, I flirt and beg for whimsy in light-hearted banter.  Leaving men to take the lead, I feel taking initiative would have me alone and marked by another name of aggression. The toll, after practicing perpetual silencing, is that I can see no sunrise on the burden I bear.  I could be proper and do right by pursuing my own goals. I could be proper and come inside before the street lights come on. I could stand on the front porch bracing my fingers against my skull to pull the plastic combs setting up the length in my hair.  Luis says to me, “Never set the length free.  A woman at your age and demise, a set apart your appearance must be. Respect yourself in your appearance in the least.” Love’s constancy is where I wait to be. Love’s respect I have no clue as what it is to be.

I could be proper by making at least one meal for mother and me to share everyday behind locked doors and pulled shades.  I need not know what goes on out in the street. Still I venture out of these musty four walls and all my virginal doubts become a fore gone conclusion. I could be proper and start practicing a firm and resounding “No.” Turning my head is also a start as well as walking away, but flirting is addictive. Shortly I will stand at the gateway, peering how far the chasm drops from the doorway. I like to play. I like to play too much.

Then again, I could be vulgar. I could answer to my name bellowed out across the street. These days they follow an intonation with a curt calling of “fast bitch, cum here.” I could be vulgar by the last lights of sundown, when men approach me underneath lamplight. They have come to know my mouth as a gutter speak street hooker, since my thighs and hocks don’t amuse anyone any more.  I could let it all go by the front room’s windows feigning Amsterdam’s dead end streets best. Wait! You’ve gotta understand my curiosity sways that way even knowing my intellect prefers to amuse itself with pantomime and monologue crowded street theater.

I started this wrong and I’ve lost resources to make the difference. Is honorable not a word I can claim? The pain, Governess, it doubles me over again.

II.

Three weeks have passed and he still does not touch me.  Despite the fact that I preferred to remain loyal, the accusations were brutal.  I refuse to lower my eyes and hands to grope at his other women- even in the privacy of his back room. Desperation never belts below my gut that way. The pain is in hearing his fantasies are more important than anything I ever had to offer. For now, he calls me a “holy mess in priest’s pinafore”. I gave up for this. I gave up too damn much.

The inside of a church is foreign to me. It has been many an Easter Sunday, but I still find every reason to wail and tear on a full moon. Sunday afternoon I close the window blinds and then shift my underwear down around my ankles. Taking the plastic bottle in hand, I tipped it over grazing my fingertips with olive oil. Slipping my right hand beneath a thick ripple of weight, I drew a cross over my uterus and ovaries. Quietly I beg Christ for perseverance even in the darkest of morning hours. Eleven years after the mark, I sit in the parlor digging in a pile of old music granddad could not take where he went. The window is open and the neighbor’s don’t complain when I hit the wrong key on the piano. Calm ensues those afternoons that come without canvassing police officers or impregnated pauses between staccato timed gunshots.

I found my peace; which is all I really wanted. My journey helped me learn that peace does not dwell between my legs or in other’s bedrooms. Peace does not wait in line to enter Gucci on Stemmons for a peek at the season’s new line. Not to forget the clothes are never in my size, but I purchase something, anything for a show of influence, means, and demeanor.  I never could find peace in men’s impatience. The men I know tend to demand and not to request. Every love, he hammered me to lower my guard relinquishing control over my words and body. Whether it felt good or not was never the question that mattered.

Dear, kind governess, forgive me. I waited then, now I ‘m so old I have no time to be leisurely in taking action for my personal welfare. I no longer need your services.  For now, I choose to take on a different yoke. Starting first, I do not blame my parents for not being wealthy, second, for never sending me to finishing school, and third, for assuming there is no worth in these limbs.  I am impatient and unforgiving of myself these days.  For that, I apologize and weep in quiet rooms with no music playing.  I thought I needed a caring woman to mentor me as I choose the problems that would destroy me. I once refused the consequences of my actions by feigning ignorance and stupidity. Finally, for one moment in time, I grew up to realizing that I do not have to perpetuate this madness and jealousy.  I am trying to move on. Where I go, I care not to mention. These days, the more I write, the more I breed solitude, assurance, and foundation in my limbs.  I am no longer afraid to be a woman like the archetypes I used to celebrate. Ancestry, class, and intelligence included, I recognize that I have a treasure trove of resources and no regrets.

Dear Governess McCormick, I am able.  I find worth without the others now. I do not reject men despite my suspect of their ways. I will have to find another way than run hardened with attraction and lust. Maybe this year spring affects us all.

©N.A. Jones      2016       All Rights Reserved

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Tipjar Southwest

Posted by Tespid on April 2, 2016

Pangeli? Pantelly? Forgive me. I tried to commit the name to memory and I have almost lost it completely. The long and short of it is they are a domestic terrorist group from what I heard. The frequent between Texas and Oklahoma and may dwell in both. I do not know how reliable this information is, by I am taking a guess it holds a bit of weight. Marijuana trafficking was mentioned before and after the name.

Takin’ a chance on my ears,

W.H. Tespid

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Writing II: Fleshing the Animal

Posted by Tespid on March 31, 2016

Governess II

Governess McCormick,

Please forgive my tone at this late hour. My lover has returned to a bedside that will never be mine. Though the real sorrow is, my tea has grown cold after souring by salty tears.  I have learned to drink from foreign wells and this tea equally educates my trust. I made the tisane from water I should know as safe, but Mexican wells make me shake.  The other chance is taking tea alone or with milk and brewed mix.  He told me he was leaving. I choose to ignore the words because of heat still swelling between my thighs. For my own heart, I choose not to test his taste with tears again. With that said, I assume you know me well enough and the matters that make my fingers grip entwined in their lacing to wring around palms with perspiration gathering in heaves only then to fall.

I am lost in intimacies and blame my mother for it all, but sometimes, sometimes, I am willing to acknowledge my part.  The final decision is mine after all. Still, I cling to ethics, morals, and personal practices to make the woman’s mind out of me.  For that, I know, before it begins, I am shaken and defeated.  Blame has me issuing challenges at my first teacher as she guards the door. Late hours pass waiting for winds to grace other porches and the sun to surmount the horizon over the First State Bank Memorial.  Why you wonder? Because out there, on the other side of this door, they do not let go. The change starts at sundown and does not let go.  After he left, I thought I could not let go.  From what she says, I am this old and in need of guardianship and mentoring again.  I have gained the age of freedom and now I need to be caged. I went to sit on the front porch at four. Foregoing dinner caused a curt mention from stiff lips to come in at sundown. I thought the night would be welcoming so I chose to stay my post a while longer. Without notice, the winds shifted and now I live regret. One would think I am out of consideration to be one of the pedophiles that roam the night trying to curry favor with the homeless.  The taunts and threats left me with a dry mouth. I live at the edge of civilization. Six miles from the main post office, ten minutes from city hall, and these days, I see open prairie in either direction.

To me guardianship and mentoring lay in self-defense. When he first touched me, I chose not to scream.  Instead, my shoulders grew soft and desperation silenced my voice.  His right hand rose to my lost curls, smoothing them back across the head.  I waited head lowered and did as he told. “Please, just make this easy for me,” I barely caught the whisper as I turned my head. Though tempted to behave in the manner of a lady’s rejection,   I acted out a whore’s acceptance. Since then I have laid the bed corners a slut and cried desperation in low pitches before an act of solitude was committed between four walls covered in notes for the new millennium and this a New Year’s celebration.  Understanding that he used me for a sex act, made a chill embed bone deep. Remembering that touch on my shoulder broke a long decade of frost and ice cushioning my lungs.  It meant skin chills and blood ices being two different realms I care not to explore any deeper.  Without his acquiesce, I would never know what grief there is in waiting, feigning patience, and posturing in chair of a motionless dusty room.

I know I have gone too far by blaming a whore for having me born. Acknowledging curse after curse befalling bastards, you can never leave your place because one does not exist. Illegitimacy is a curved mark of no entitlement. You get what you get and make it work on foot, on beds, or in the back of cars. I am grave in the fact that I have no father. If so, I would have seen your face much sooner than now Governess McCormick. I wish myself “Daddy’s Little Girl” with all the entitlements. How could my father deny me someone like you? I think not and therefore I continue to write.

Every time I get close, every time the stars align, I forgive myself of former grieving.  Every time I remember Michael while I muse underneath the worn holes in the sheets and tatters of cheap blankets laid between a fitted sheet and mother’s fall blessing before the storm, I see a black man corralling us all into lines. The first day I notice the young man, I feel a twinge in my stomach signifying that this assuredly his last day. From the lines of confused kindergarteners, he chooses a bride and a groom. He selects new students to marry every day, but me he designates as Reverend for each ceremony. Preparations of paper flower bouquets and witnesses with pinned crepe paper boutonnières.  I forgo a collar as he tells me my responsibilities. I memorize his litany and I abide by the betrothed. Come day three of ceremonies, he seems to know my longings and alienation. I hold back tears as he promises Michael to me to occur tomorrow afternoon. Come Thursday two o’clock in the afternoon Michael is nowhere in the library. We all wait as the young black man looks among confused faces. At age seven, my heart breaks without a tear. He dismisses us back to our corners in the play area. Come Friday not only is Michael gone, but also is the aide. Teacher, guardian, mentor for the moment, disappears without word or sign.

I aged to about thirty-six when I realized those marriages where binding in my head. Mother told me once that in movies, especially the black and white ones from the 1930’s, they had to block the ceremonies with other sounds as the spoken marriage was binding under the law. Back then, she told, no law existed specifying who could marry couples.  Because of that, even mock marriages are legally binding. In my head, the ceremonies were real despite my age and ignorance. Come age thirty-six, I played the notion out and prayed those I bound could find love and marriage without influence from a childhood binding I laid in their heads.

I prayed, I pray, I am praying, this curse not to follow me. Jilted at the altar, I refocused to hold fast to God and a realization of grace. I am but human. The ways of holy, I cannot fathom, for I am far from faithful.  Strange, even bastards gather into eternal arms. So I hear. Am I so far gone from the law that I cannot claim anything unto it?

Your faithful pupil,

Eva

©N.A. Jones      2016       All Rights Reserved

 

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Writing I: Fleshing the Animal

Posted by Tespid on March 26, 2016

Dear Governess,

To you, the mentor I never had. The one whose presence was critical during the years I was most sensitive to boys and men. For then and now, I write these notes. Sometimes full of regret, other times celebrating trials I met and made. To you, elusive mentor, I give a most humble recognition and due, for you staid past childhood into the heart of unsure years. Those years I spent learning to walk the ridge of puberty’s sharp blade; never letting go of adolescence seemed never to have left.  To this day I still have not reached adulthood in my dull grays of fifty some years. Yet, I still meander in the woods to play in mud puddles by streams carrying detritus of upstream living.

Mother called me to, one fine Saturday afternoon before I left the house to play. She lounged on the couch while my baby sister lay for another hour in the crib sandwiched between the china closet and kitchen doorjamb in the dining room. Forbidden to climb stairs, mother puttered the kitchen and sat by the window waiting for the stitches to heal over the critical cut. So, the second floor nursery and master bedroom where moved to the first floor dining room.  Her time in the adjacent living area made sense. It was just past the front door-a perfect distance for a change of view and a mere few steps from watching over a newborn. However, rest set sluggishly on her lips and being quick to aid crying child was impossible. Her breathing and thinking in between the pauses could not help but have me wonder if I was in trouble.

“Whadda you know ‘bout babies,” she questioned while locking me in her gaze.

Thinking quickly I divulge, “Just what the kids on the street say.” A timed rhythm of a pause seemed to brace itself on the edge of my lips. “Well my peepee has place for a boy’s peepee. He pisses in there…”

“What else you know?” She spoke curtly as if angered.

“Nothing…I didn’t do anything you know. Nothang… Can I go out and play now?”

“Yes, you can.”

Looking back to an age of seven, I find my ignorance repulsive. Now flashing forward to six-grade sex education class, I remembered comparing my teacher’s gentility to my mother’s abrasiveness. I hoped my mother would change, so I could eventually sit at her feet listening to the mysteries of the world explained.

The other color to this hue of black desperation was that I developed a prejudice after watching “Eight is enough, Little House of the Prairie, and the Bill Cosby Show on television. What irked me at the end of each show was thinking family life should be what all those television episodes on raising children were. First problem, in television land, children’s questions received immediate answers. For my reality, that was an inconsistent privilege. Second problem, I thought I was at a loss when neither parent could answer. Sometimes those answers came with anger. As a result, I never felt comfortable in the resolve. Television’s gentle talking families aside; I still dreamed a close moment between mother and daughter that would last through my own grandchildren. Yet, that is television land and reality is different. Why do we think the perfect mother is born from television banter?  When will I learn what mom’s think, feel, and anticipate? Maybe it will occur when I have my own, dear governess, and employ you to my service. Then again, I might grow distant and shun my responsibilities. However, this, to you, from me, Governess, I would rather engender the moment none of us will forget, to lay groundwork for adult children to manage the intimate and sexual in their lives.

Governess? Can you teach me how to be proper, gentle, and comely like in all the books I read? Dare I swell in the commercial and compare myself to some screen siren and her wanton needs.  I just, well, to be honest, I want to be pretty. You see, I never heard womanly praise during the early bloodied years. I came to believe I was a sight for dishonorable eyes and hands. Because of it, I may have done something I regret and am still not ready to admit. Truly then, I had nothing to compare my countenance. Not that it was a crime to be fair, it is just my darker friend always had more praise than I did. The compliments were so vocal when we were with strangers that when I came home, my tears cried for naught. In my cruelty of jealousies, I thought it was her long hair and stately walk. Compared to her I thought I was the scullery maid in an English manor. Yes, I was the lowest of the low. Thinking so little of myself, my resistance started to drop. Boys’ come hithers in the night made me feel exposed among the day population. Tell me Governess when did I become a creature of the night? When did all the little things said in the back of the locker room come true for me? Once, I was a nice girl. I was very plain, and thought somewhat appealing to look at. I had a chance, I thought, to walk hand in hand with a good man to enter into a convent before God. Now I buy eight pairs of heels a week and I am still behind in notes from the daily meet. I have an account at the local baby butcher’s storefront.  I once hoped for money and anything I wanted. Still, dear Governess, whom I have never met, tell me please is there hope for me yet?

I remember teaching myself how to sit in the receiving parlor as mother mentioned a few words in kind to a male visitor, “She’s a bit touched, flaky, and even wholesome in her intent”. I started smoothing my lace blouse and skirts hoping hand pressing and saliva would do just as well as an electric iron. “I’ll take your hat and coat for the closet. Forgive me for assuming, but I am hoping you will stay for dinner.” I make the wrong move and sit in the only chair. Slowly I pulled myself to the chair’s edge trying to inch forward past dangling my legs over the wooden floor. “Perch,” you said. Your shadow steady framed in the window across the room, braced in the afternoon light. Suddenly the back of my skirt caught in the foam and ripped silk piping of the cushion. Positioning the skirt again, I anchored my legs out front of me placing heels into the ridges of the floor. If I shift in any direction, I will drop onto hardwood, vermiculite, and young ferns.

“I’ve only come for one reason and it is not to ask her hand. I need a third for my wife and your daughter is well with children. This is an interview, not an investment”.

I turn my head to the clock. He entered at 3:02. At 3:08, I heard the bolt lock. “Change for diner Eva. There will be no company tonight.”

I am fifty-two with no child, no man, and capped by student loan bill that would cripple any court of justice. In my eyes, I am an eleven year old inside flower printed wear. I am an eleven year old growing my hair out to be a little more womanly. I am my mother’s daughter gathering a dish of mashed potatoes to place on the table. I noticed the third setting of serving plates removed and I do as I am told.

Your faithful pupil,

Eva the Younger

©N.A. Jones      2016       All Rights Reserved

 

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Cooking

Posted by Tespid on March 24, 2016

I realize it has been a hot minute since the last post, but today I do not come empty handed. As requested, two recipes to use both coming from a late nights in the kitchen.

Untitled Recipe #1

for one serving

Boil water and cook 2/3 cup of orrechiette pasta. While the pasta cooks, saute in 2 tablespoons of olive oil and one tablespoon of butter, 1/2 cup of finely diced onion and 2 cloves of garlic finely diced.Cook until the onion turns translucent. Place 1/4 cup of diced broccoli in a pryex dish with 1 tablespoon of water. Cover the dish and steam in the microwave for 2 minutes. Set aside. In the last few minutes of cooking the onion and garlic add in 1/4 cup of diced ha. When the ham begins to brown, add in the broccoli, 1/4 teaspoon of dried basil, orrechiettes, and toss. Sprinkle Parmesan cheese over the dish, serve, and eat.

Untitled Recipe #2

2 boiled eggs, chopped fine

1/3 cup of bread and butter relish

1 heaping teaspoon of Miracle Whip

1 can of tuna fish in vegetable oil

1/3 cup of diced onion

1/8 celery seed

1/4 teaspoon garlic powder

Blend in a bowl and set to chill in the refrigerator. Cook till crisp two pieces of bacon (Pork of Turkey) and set aside. Butter two slices of whole wheat bread and brown in the oven’s broiler on low till lightly brown. Take once slice of bread and cover with the bacon in 1/2 slices. Smooth 2-3 tablespoons of tuna fish salad over it. Cover the top with slices of sharp cheddar cheese. Return to the broiler to melt the cheese. Place the broiled half on a cutting board and cover with the remaining slice. Cut the sandwich in half, plate, serve, eat.

~NCC

 

 

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Cooking: White House #22 (Corrections/Additions)

Posted by Tespid on March 8, 2016

White House #22
Notes on Testing Herbs and Vegetables for Cooking
I decided to use this method to get to know the herbs in the cooking cabinet. I am positive it will bring a greater range of seasoning and method to what I discover on my own. Meanwhile I need to get back to the paper chase and read more about growing, propagation, and use. What follow are notes from the hip and roughly edited for ease of reading. Overall, it is a meld from a few years of reading and taking note. What erupted below, was more than likely overdue. I study herbalism on an erratic basis. Still as with everyday cooking, I learn something new with every passing of the sun. Read the body of this page, before you go out venturing. Note I have not posted anything on proportions and poisoning. Use common sense in all matters. As a guidepost, please stick to using the smallest amount of herbs as they can be expensive and cause allergies. Also, if I remember correctly, when using dry herbs, the proportion to the recipe is less than if you are using fresh.
Choose a no more than two herbs to test over a month’s period. Test one a week and monitor your physical reactions as well as mental to the herb over the week. Drink water more than any sugary drink or alcoholic beverage to keep the responses easy to monitor.
Proportion 1/8 teaspoon to ¼ teaspoon to season one small boiled potato.

Note: Use up to 1/2 of mashed boiled potato to blend with the herb you choose.

Try the following tests in order for you to become familiar with the herb:

  • Using a cleaned portion of the fresh herb, taste one leaf at a time no more than three leaves
  • 1/8 teaspoon dry herb with ¼ cup of mashed boiled potato
  • 1/8 teaspoon dry herb with ¼ cup of mashed boiled potato and a pinch of sea salt
  • 1/8 teaspoon…. With 1 teaspoon of unsalted butter and 1-2 teaspoons of milk
  • “…milk with a pinch of sea salt
  • 1/8 teaspoon of dry herb, ¼ of a small potato, and 1 tablespoon of chicken broth
  • Steep 1 teaspoon of dry herb in one cup of boiling water for 2-3 minutes
  • “… add a pinch of sea salt
  • Cook ½ cup of rice in 1 1/4 cups of water with 1 Tablespoon of fresh herb.
  • Add 1 teaspoon of unsalted butter and a pinch of sea salt to ¼ cup of rice.
  • Add 1 teaspoon sugar to ¼ cup of rice
  • Make a small batch of corn bread muffins (no more than 6 in the yield) add 2 Tablespoons of fresh herb to the batter before baking. Also, try cold corn bread muffins by mixing a proportion of cold water to corn meal and 2 Tablespoons of finely chopped herb. Gather the batter into small corn cakes and fry until brown in coconut oil.
  • Make a batch of bread using milk and water in the preparation. Use 1 teaspoon of dried herb or 2 tablespoons of fresh herb to the flour before mixing the wet with the dry. Or add 1 teaspoon of dried herb or 2 tablespoons of fresh herb to the flour for a olive oil and water mix of wet to make a texture similar to pizza dough. Don’t forget the yeast. When in doubt, find a simple bread recipe to follow and integrate the herbal ingredient as needed.

After each preparation, take notes on several points. React to the taste of the herb on your palette in each blend and form. From texture, to acidity, and the overall blend with the ingredients be attentive to the nuances of flavor on your tongue. Use the best word to describe your experience. If the taste of the herb reminds you of a blend of spices/herbs, write that down. If the herb requires another seasoning to complete the tongues experience, note that as well. Take time to write down any memories triggered by the herb. Whether the memory is about food or some mundane occasion, write it down. If you see a symbol, sing a song, or if your mind harkens to something normally foreign to you, write that down as well. The more input you take from each tasting, the easier it will be to cook with knowledgeable use in the future. That includes building your own spice blends for culinary use to medicinal. Between tasting each preparation, clear your palette by drinking water. Take the time to brush your teeth and tongue between each test if you deem it necessary.

For the next few hours take note to how you feel over all. Has your mood changed or developed in a different direction. Has your gastrointestinal system cleared itself? Was it a violent action? Was it diarrhea? Was it expected? Does your urine smell or has it taken on discoloration? Has your vision changed? Did you break out in hives? Are you sleepy? Did you sleep undisturbed? Are you hungry or are you sated?
To get a good read for this experiment, do not eat or drink anything other than water for at least an hour before beginning the testing. The point is to isolate the herbal reaction in your body rather than factoring in other issues or influences that may confuse the results. The point is to get to know the culinary effects of a certain herb in your cooking by using your own taste buds with knowledge and intent. By no means ignore the traditional uses of herbs in local, regional, and international cooking. Those uses will inform your cooking and give you a wider range of methods to use when in the kitchen. Learning traditional methods may also save you time and health as some herbs may be poisonous in different proportions and well as preparations. Learning first hand will give you a more authoritative stance in recipe construction and general cooking. You will not have to guess; you will know.

~NCC

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Cooking: Fried Peaches

Posted by Tespid on March 8, 2016

Fried Peaches

Chose one or two peaches that yield under slight pressure with the thumb. If you pick peaches that are ripe, they may fall apart in the pan while they cook down. The point is to end with peaches that retain their shape otherwise you will have the consistency of applesauce. Next, lightly scrub the skins of the peaches to clean. Slice each peach in half and remove the seed. Then cut each half into eight wedges. Place into a pan just large enough to fit all of the section. Cover the fruit in ½-1 cup of water. The water should be deep enough to allow a part of the peaches to appear to float like an island on top. Set the heat on medium and boil off the water. The peaches will soften. As the last droplets of water evaporate, add one tablespoon of coconut oil. Brown the peaches on both sides. (Note: Consistently turn the peaches so they will not burn in the pan. Keeping the heat medium to low may also be a solution.) Once the peaches begin to brown on the second side, sprinkle two tablespoons of sugar and one teaspoon of ginger over the fruit. Turn down the heat to low and let the sugar start to caramelize. When the ginger becomes fragrant, it is time to serve. Serve with pancakes, companion to humus and pita, or on ice cream.

Pastied Pastry Chef

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Suicide Journal 2016

Posted by Tespid on February 13, 2016

The beginning of getting you help.

YF,

NCC

 

Three weeks passed before I picked up scissors again. I touched neither fabric nor paper. The temptation was just too great. Still getting beyond the paranoia cutting, knives were a different story. I was suited with fork in my left hand, blade in my right. Supple tender flesh of pork and chicken, strangely enough, did not remind me of the sensitivity in my two wrists. Knives are my mother’s territory. Leaving blood trails on the blade would incur further damnation following death. What prompted the fascination three weeks earlier was mom’s grey green large handled scissors used for sewing. I held them in my left hand while curving my arm to slice a clean line through the pulse on my right. Sitting on my bed in the sunlight gave me perfect sight to continue, but falling tears got in the way. I sat with a steady stream flowing down my cheek; meanwhile I bent at the waist to prevent throw-up from choking me down to the floor. Right now, I do not remember what I said. I know there was no screaming. I did not wail while throwing pillows and clothes across the room. What I do know is no blood was drawn and asking for help was a slow second.
I ran downstairs to find my mother. She was in the kitchen leaning forward over something grey and orange in a steaming pot. <Aromas should be pungent in my memory, but even on that day, they have eroded away.> I may have started the conversation with tears. I may have whispered for help as I peered into a different boiling pot. What I remember was being distracted and quietly saying something about trying to commit suicide. I assumed she knew I needed comfort. I assumed she knew that I needed a chance to recount my horrible-no good-bad day. I assumed she knew I needed patience and encouragement.

“Whaddaya wanna go and do that for? Huh,” she said.
An accusatory voice is not what I expected. Then I was not wary of reverse psychology. I backed up slowly and ran back to my room. I sat staring at scissors in my palm as the sky went dark. Come sundown I broke out of the trance and slipped under bed covers. Then, like now, I seem only to process difficult emotions through sleep. The more I stress, the more I sleep.
I may have told twice already, but the third time is a chance to forgive and grow. Some decade after running with scissors, I tried to cut close to the same edge. Post-traumatic stress was the push, but I feared death and betrayal more than blood, so I found another way to die. It was a meditative act unto me, if not to carve out pain quickly and quietly. Every piece of paper, every picture, and every notion of a symbolic reminder of me, I let go into fire. Ashes were not the consequence, but a sense to build a homunculus that could substitute for childhood folly, adolescent embarrassment, and adulthood’s mistakes. I thought once, the art it was a passion play to live out through monologues and pantomime. This push to leave the mortal coil I defeated with a desire to live, not to forget methods with quiet notions and pledges in the middle of dark nights. So, with a little wisdom, I split the skein and walked the middle road. The eulogy was brief and the water burial lengthy. Whatever did not go down the drain I scooped and bagged for Friday garbage pickup.
In retrospect, the pageant was not so much about my body and blood as much as setting my soul free from bondage. After that, I sat some twenty years of unresolved ennui. Throughout the time I turned and sought for help but frequently had no response or aid past encouragement to bide my time. Resorting to magic, well, shadow magic, no, instinctual magic saved me from mental damage. My main regret is losing my substance and blood that called to a life of authenticity. Pride and pain had me commit to the act without regret; then only to sit quietly in reticence later. <Strange, there has been a light and airy feeling that accompanies my breathing and walking for years after that afternoon. >I wonder if the grounding weight I possessed, before the pageant, reintroduced itself to balance by accumulating physical pounds over subsequent years.>
The Survivor’s Magic, that kept me in abeyance ended a few weeks ago. Last month I remembered a solution to soul loss that I found years before baptism. The process is soul retrieval. One day I may seek a professional to bring back the pieces I lost and let go then. I know I am ready and more capable to care for myself compared to the emotions of confusion, carelessness, and selfishness that embodied my emotions then. Before the water burial, I could not care properly for myself, let alone another even if of myself. To regain a whole identity l would be an act of brutal honesty and care. I fear that this journey in words, pictures, and food I started would end if I did not properly prepare for this next venture-wherever it goes.
Meanwhile I compromise and work the in balances of living and creating until I return unto myself in resplendent glory and joy. On the magical side? Method was the first end to my sadness before baptism. For that, I am thankful. Since baptism my senses awakened to the point that colors were more vibrant, aromas more striking, and my voice opened up to sing. Inside my home, the shadows came undone. I freed myself, that afternoon, of ashes and paper. Progressively letting go of a weighted yoke has let me walk with more confidence in grace. Walking the winds this spring seems all but an undoing.
© N.A. Jones 2016 All Rights Reserved

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Transit and Public Transportation

Posted by Tespid on February 2, 2016

 

Ada Township has earmarked its $6,287 in federal Community Development block grant funds from Kent County for the year 2016 for its public transportation plan. After a public hearing on Jan. 25, the board voted to allocate all available funds from the …

MLive · ByJan Holst · 1 day ago

Hope Network

More than seven in 10 Americans support increased federal funding for the nation’s public transportation systems in communities of all sizes, according to a survey conducted by ORC International for the American Public Transportation Association.

Stanwood Camano NEWS · 17 hours ago

public transit

A public-private group preparing to apply for a federal grant is proposing an interactive transportation network that would include public transit and possibly innovative traffic communication and automated vehicles. No local matching funds would be …

GSA Business · 10 hours ago
The grantFederal funding for local projects,” said Freeholder Chairman Bruce H. Bergen. “The response from our municipalities was overwhelmingly positive, and we are looking forward to another round of County …

tapinto.net · 3 hours ago
California transit agencies say the U.S. Department of Labor is blocking as much as $1 billion in vital grants unless the agencies agree to violate a state public employee pension reform law. The agencies thought they had won a federal court victory late …

San Jose Mercury News · 8/21/2015

 

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Grant Op IV

Posted by Tespid on February 2, 2016

The synopsis for this grant opportunity is detailed below, following this paragraph. This synopsis contains all of the updates to this document that have been posted as of 1/14/2016. If updates have been made to the opportunity synopsis, update information is provided below the synopsis.

If you would like to receive notifications of changes to the grant opportunity click send me change notification emails. The only thing you need to provide for this service is your email address. No other information is requested.

Any inconsistency between the original printed document and the disk or electronic document shall be resolved by giving precedence to the printed document.
General Information

Document Type: Grants Notice
Funding Opportunity Number: RUS-16-01-DLT
Funding Opportunity Title: Distance Learning and Telemedicine Grant Program
Opportunity Category: Discretionary
Funding Instrument Type: Grant
Category of Funding Activity: Community Development
Education
Health
Category Explanation:
Expected Number of Awards: 65
CFDA Number(s): 10.855 — Distance Learning and Telemedicine Loans and Grants
Cost Sharing or Matching Requirement: Yes
Posted Date: Jan 14, 2016
Creation Date: Jan 14, 2016
Original Closing Date for Applications: Mar 14, 2016  
Current Closing Date for Applications: Mar 14, 2016  
Archive Date: Apr 13, 2016
Estimated Total Program Funding: $19,000,000
Award Ceiling: $500,000
Award Floor: $50,000

Eligibility

Eligible Applicants:
County governments
Independent school districts
For profit organizations other than small businesses
Small businesses
State governments
Native American tribal governments (Federally recognized)
Nonprofits that do not have a 501(c)(3) status with the IRS, other than institutions of higher education
Nonprofits having a 501(c)(3) status with the IRS, other than institutions of higher education
Native American tribal organizations (other than Federally recognized tribal governments)
Private institutions of higher education
City or township governments
Public and State controlled institutions of higher education
Special district governments
Additional Information on Eligibility:

Additional Information

Agency Name: Utilities Programs
Description: Distance Learning and Telemedicine Grant Program
Link to Additional Information: Program Web Site
Contact Information: If you have difficulty accessing the full announcement electronically, please contact:

Randall Millhiser DLT Coordinator Phone 2027200800
Agency Contact

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Grants Op III

Posted by Tespid on February 2, 2016

The synopsis for this grant opportunity is detailed below, following this paragraph. This synopsis contains all of the updates to this document that have been posted as of 7/2/2015. If updates have been made to the opportunity synopsis, update information is provided below the synopsis.

If you would like to receive notifications of changes to the grant opportunity click send me change notification emails. The only thing you need to provide for this service is your email address. No other information is requested.

Any inconsistency between the original printed document and the disk or electronic document shall be resolved by giving precedence to the printed document.
General Information

Document Type: Grants Notice
Funding Opportunity Number: VA-GRANTS-NCA-FY2016
Funding Opportunity Title: Veterans Cemetery Grants
Opportunity Category: Discretionary
Funding Instrument Type: Grant
Category of Funding Activity: Community Development
Category Explanation:
Expected Number of Awards: 20
CFDA Number(s): 64.203 — State Cemetery Grants
Cost Sharing or Matching Requirement: Yes
Posted Date: Jul 2, 2015
Creation Date: Jun 10, 2015
Original Closing Date for Applications: Jul 1, 2016  
Current Closing Date for Applications: Jul 1, 2016  
Archive Date: Jul 31, 2016
Estimated Total Program Funding: $45,000,000
Award Ceiling: $45,000,000
Award Floor: $0

Eligibility

Eligible Applicants:
State governments
Native American tribal governments (Federally recognized)
Additional Information on Eligibility:

Additional Information

Agency Name: VA National Cemetery Administration
Description: Grants are available for states, territories and federally recognized tribal governments. This program is implemented in 38 Code of Federal Regulations Part 39.
Link to Additional Information: Veterans Cemetery Grants website
Contact Information: If you have difficulty accessing the full announcement electronically, please contact:

Veterans Cemetery Grants Program
Veterans Cemetery Grants Program mailbox

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